The Dimension Jumper
by Scandalacious Intentions
Summary: Sequel to "Dimension Jump". John is off to find himself. Several selves.
1. Speculation

**Disclaimer: Very little of it is mine. Most of these characters are, of course, Rowling's.**

**A/N: A while ago (October, I believe) I was asked on tumblr whether I would consider writing a sequel to "Dimension Jump", a concept I have flirted with for a long time. This is more of a spin-off than a sequel, but you do need to have read that to know most of the characters and their situations. Anna, you might be able to tell, is a lot happier here than she has **_**ever**_** been. This is the Anna I love to write and will defend to the bitter end.**

**Anyway, this is five months late so I'd better crack on.**

"But it'll hurt."

"It's the only way to do it," John protests. "And besides, it'll be _me_ in pain, not you."

"It breaks every bone in your body, John. It tears you apart."

"And then it puts me back together. What, do you think when I come back, I'll have lost my looks?"

Cara raises an eyebrow. "What looks?"

"My bookishly handsome face?"

"Listen, John, of the two of us, I am the looker."

"I'm the brain? I can cope with that."

"I am also the brain."

"You know what I'll miss most, Black? Your modesty."

"Ah, but you _will_ miss me."

"It's touch and go."

"Don't be such a dick." She shifts her weight onto her left thigh, wriggling closer to him.

John doesn't know how to respond. His parents do not show one another physical affection. It is rare they even speak to one another. With the exception of his mother, Cara Black is the first human female with whom he has come into contact. He supposes it's hardly surprising that he is captivated by her, attracted to her, but he cannot fathom her reciprocation.

"Don't you want to put your arm around me or something?"

"Sorry. Yes, of course." He does as he is instructed, pulling her closer so that he can smell the coconut oil she runs through her blue-black hair.

"How can you be sure you'll be able to come back?"

"Peter came back, didn't he? It's the same potion."

"I'd rather you stayed here, where I know you're safe."

John stiffens and she shrugs off his arm. "All my life, I have been told I must be locked away for my own safety. I've been kept prisoner in my own house. You're beginning to sound like my mother."

"Cara!"

Cara swings her legs off her bed and rushes to door before it can be opened. "Mum?"

Electra's long neck allows her to peer over her daughter's head and make eye contact with the boy sitting cross-legged on her bed. "Good evening."

"Evening, Mrs. Black. Pleasure as always."

Electra purses her lips and hums her disapproval. "It's getting late."

"Unless you'd like to stay for dinner?" Cara beams at him and he's tempted, but he knows her mother isn't overly fond of him spending too much time at Grimmauld. He's unsure whether Sirius is unconcerned or has merely turned a blind eye.

"Thank you, but I'll be meeting my father in about fifteen minutes."

"If my husband is still there, for Merlin's sake, send him home. Tell him I'll set Kreacher on fire; he'll want to be here for that."

John laughs politely, but there's something about Mrs. Black that makes him think she might not be joking. "I should probably make a move. It was lovely to see you, Cara. I'll see you again as soon as I'm home."

* * *

"I'd be terrified if it was Cara. Or God forbid, the twins."

James laughs. "Castor and Pollux free to follow fourteen different versions of me across the known universe? I believe that might be the premise of several people's nightmares, Pad."

The kitchen of Sleepy Cottage is not as any of them remember it. Abandoned for almost eighteen years, it is dusty and empty. The pictures that hang on the wall opposite the AGA have faded in the sun. The windows are dirty and shut against the April rain. It is silent and unloved.

All four of them remember sitting down to breakfast at the long table in the centre of the room. Between four boys, Lupin's father, who regularly read aloud from the crossword, his mother, who fussed over them constantly, and the menagerie of semi-dangerous pets, it was anarchy. It never rains in their memories; the sun always shone in their eyes and burned the backs of their necks. The heat was intense, only cooled by Cornish ice cream, a real summer holiday. It's not terrifying in its abandonment, but tragic.

"Are you sure you're going to be all right here on your own?" asks Peter.

"Of course I will be. I'm home."

With a sudden pop, his son materialises at the far end of the room and Lupin smiles warmly. "What do you think?"

"I think it needs a good clean, Dad." John nods a greeting to his father's friends, all of whom are relative strangers. "But it's nice."

"Well," says James, getting to his feet with an apologetic smile, "I hate to break up this little reunion, but my son's home tonight. I should get back to Lily."

"Ooh." John clicks his fingers and points at Sirius. "I think your wife would like you to go home to her."

Sirius grins. "I think my wife would like me to do a lot of things. Now, Remus, are you sure you're all right? If you need a hand, I'll stay."

"It's OK – John's here. I'll see you Thursday."

"Good. No disappearing off."

Lupin smiles wryly. "And just where would I go?"

"Anywhere so long as it's not back to Lovett. Sorry, John."

John attempts a smile in response. "That's all right. She's only my mother."

"_John_."

Sirius shakes his head. "No, he's right. I spoke out of turn. But I meant it, Remus." Nodding toward the front door, he gestures for Peter to join him. "We'd best be off."

As soon as he hears them Apparate out, Lupin's forced smile drops. "Please don't speak to my friends like that."

"That was Mum he was talking about."

"You don't know the half of what went on with your mother, John."

John's nose wrinkles in distaste. He absentmindedly brushes his finger through a thick layer of dust on the table, revealing the varnished oak beneath. "All my life you've been unhappy."

"That's not true. You know that's not true."

"Could you ever have been happy with her?"

His tongue darts out to wet his lips and Lupin nods. "But that was a very long time ago."

John nods slowly, sucking in his lower lip and chewing absentmindedly. "I think that's where I'll go first."

"Are you sure it's safe?"

John sighs irritably. "I'm a bit sick of people asking me that. If you're that concerned, why don't you ask Peter? Or Harry?"

"I'm worried because I have spent my entire life protecting you. I have sacrificed my entire life, what little there was of it, to protect you. To think of you throwing that away, turns my stomach, frankly."

John nods solemnly. "I'll see you when I get back."

"I think that's for the best."

"_If_ I get back." And with that, he Apparates out. Immediately, they both regret it.

* * *

They are exactly alike, down to the positions of their freckles. He turns in his sleep and mumbles something into his pillow. A wisp of his chocolate-coloured hair, shoulder-length and curly, sticks to his mouth. John takes the seat opposite the boy's bed and looks down at the face of the boy he could have been.

"Who the fuck are you?"

John jumps, stifling a cry. The other boy is small and thin, as his father had been at his age. His voice hasn't broken yet, but he's more than comfortable with the expletive. He knows this has been inherited from his mother, their mother.

"It's all right," he says, taking advantage of his physical appearance. "It's only me."

He would have had a brother. Castor and Pollux, the Black twins, are considerably younger, and closer in age than he and this stranger, but he cannot help but feel the pang of longing, the sting of acute jealousy, as he remembers their identical grins, their made-up language, their games. A brother might have made his imprisonment in the family home bearable.

"You're not John. You're too nice to me."

"I am so. I'm just…I'm a bit…I'm not _your _John; I'm _a_ John. What's your name?"

"Ambrose."

John's laugh is a splutter. "Ambrose? Fucking Ambrose? I thought _I_ had an old man's name." The boy looks stung and John immediately apologises. "Is that what your brother says to you?"

"No." He doesn't elaborate and the silence is deafening.

"O.K. Well, look, I came to see one thing in particular and I need you to go back to bed."

Ambrose shakes his head. "I don't think you can be here."

"I'm not doing anything wrong. I just want to stop in on our parents."

"They're not _our_ parents. They're _my_ parents."

"Oh don't be like that. Share and share alike."

Despite Ambrose's protestations, John creeps along the hallway in the darkness, trailed by his brother from another dimension. There are only two other doors on the first floor, one of which he knows his parents to be behind. He strides toward the first and finds himself in a bathroom not unlike the equivalent in his own house. There are pictures of their little family on the walls and stuck to the mirror, a small blue-flowering plant sits on the windowsill. His parents, both meticulously neat, have arranged their grooming products in order of size on the shelf above the bath.

"This is eerie," he whispers to no one in particular.

"What is?"

John ignores him. Ambrose is used to it.

The last door, furthest down the hall, is tucked away in the corner, almost as though it doesn't want to be found. John stops, resting his hand on the knob, wondering whether he wants to turn it.

They sleep huddled together. His father, he notices, still mutters in his sleep and his foot is twitching under the duvet. His mother's hair is longer, frizzier, a mane of chocolate-brown hair splayed across the pillow, across his father's face.

"Are they married? I imagined them married."

Ambrose nods and, as if it is the most obvious thing in the world, mumbles, "Mmmhmm."

"I don't expect you to understand, but I'm not used to this. This is all I've ever wanted."

* * *

He spends the night in their kitchen, watching their photographs with undisguised longing. His mother tossing her bouquet, Electra pretending not to care that she's caught it. This boy, this other John, and his brother and their father at the beach. It makes him sick with envy.

It's mid-morning before there's any movement upstairs. John, having slept at the table with his head resting on his folded arms, wakes with a start. The clock reads ten-thirty.

"Y'all right, m'love?" His mother's dressing gown is made of blue silk. She leans on the doorframe, smiling indulgently at him and ruffling her curls until they form a cloud around her, hiding her slight double-chin and framing her sleepy smile. "D'ya want some toast? Or some eggs and bacon? Or both? Both. Nah, let's be having us some fried bread."

In some ways, she hasn't changed at all. Without waiting for an answer, without requiring any sort of explanation from him, she reaches for a frying pan. "How long have you been down here?" she asks, her back to him as she spoons cold fat from a jug and melts it. "I hope it's not been long. Your daddy overslept and you know me – it's like trying to wake the dead. Black pudding?"

John grins. "Please."

"I don't suppose you'll be needing your mammy to be cooking you breakfast, but I like to, Johnny."

"_I_ like it."

"You've to wake Ambrose though."

His heart sinks. "Ah. I think you and I need to have a little chat. You might want to sit down."


	2. Sex and Sensibility

**Disclaimer: See first chapter.**

"I'm not your son." John twists the sleeves of his cardigan, pulling them up past his fingers. Usually his mother shouts at him for it, but this woman pays no attention. "I mean, I _am_ your son; you _are_ my mother. You just didn't give birth to me. My mother is…she's not a bad person. I think, perhaps, she used to be. And if you listen to my dad's friend, she still is."

Anna raises an eyebrow. "Is this supposed to be me?"

"My mother is the estranged wife of a Death Eater."

She laughs in his face – not maliciously, it's a giggle, but he's rather taken aback regardless. She covers her mouth with her hand and sits back in her chair. He can't help but smile. She knows about it; it seems they _all_ know about it and this boy's parents, they talk about it.

"That would be that Slytherin boy. Mercy, what his name?"

"Mulciber," John replies, though he knows she wasn't really asking him. He sometimes feels that Mulciber is more of a presence in his home than his own father. He's reduced to a skeleton in the closest, a shadow in the darkness, a ghoul in the attic, but he's there. He's always there.

"That's right. He spent most of his time chasing skirt and in, what was it, must have been our last year, maybe the year before, he decided he was going to go after me. Good looking boy, too, from what I remember. But your daddy – well, maybe not _your_ daddy, my husband – was…" The smell of the smoke billowing from the AGA sends her leaping out of her seat. "Ah, now why did you not tell me it was burning?"

In truth, he'd been too enthralled.

"You're taking this awfully well."

With a flick of her wand, the blackened sausages land in a large dog's bowl, and she returns to the table. "How else ought I to take it?"

"I don't know. I thought you might have doubted me."

"I know my own son and you're too serious, too grown-up to be my Johnny."

John smiles grimly. "I had to grow up. I didn't have a choice."

She reaches across the table and cups his cheek in her hand, stroking it idly with her thumb. "My father left us when I was very small and my mother was killed when I was fifteen. I know what it means to be forced into adulthood."

Despite himself, John cannot hold back his tears. "She doesn't tell me anything. Neither of them do. They just expect me to shut up and accept my lot. Well, I won't. I never went to school, I never had friends. My girlfriend thinks I'm some sort of novelty act and any day now, she's going to get bored. And this – these last ten minutes – has told me more about you than I've learned in the last seventeen years."

Anna clucks in sympathy and hands him a rough piece of kitchen paper with which to dry his eyes. "I'll bet that's not true. You knew all about this boy."

"He's her husband! He's the reason my life is a living hell."

"What on earth is going on down here?"

John swings round to catch a glimpse of his father. Physically, he could be a perfect stranger. For one thing, he's smiling. He's still tall, still facially familiar, but he's rounder in the shoulders, a little more muscular. His skin is unmarred and glowing, the picture of health. His hair is cut above the ears, the shortest John has ever seen it, and none of it grey. He strides across the room, so sure of himself, so at home in his own body, and kisses his wife who pulls away, disgusted.

"You've been smoking again."

"Do forgive me. I was told there were two Johns and I thought it was the sort of shock that required nicotine. I almost offered Ambrose one."

Anna clicks her tongue. "I hope he's not _too_ shocked."

"I think John's going to have it worse."

John shakes his head. "I'll clear off before he wakes up."

Nobody protests. His mother, or at least the woman who could have been, bites her lip to block her invitation. He's not welcome here. He never has been.

"I should go," he insists, getting to his feet and sliding the chair under the table. "Thank you for having me. It was a pleasure to meet you – both of you. And Ambrose. He's a nice boy."

"I've got a few questions for you," says Lupin, idly buttering a burned slice of toast. It's the ghost of a threat and John nods his understanding. "So if you wouldn't mind staying for breakfast?"

"Is black bread all that's on offer?"

Lupin laughs. "You can come again." Turning to his wife he adds, "I rather like this John. Can we keep him?"

Anna purses her lips. "And what would you do with your own son?"

"There's bound to be an attic or a cellar we can hole him up in."

"You're not already using one?" John asks, almost accusingly.

Lupin frowns. "Ought we to be? How many miserable teenage sons do you think I have?"

"Then where do you transform?"

He laughs, but it's dark and insincere. The creases in his brow deepen. "Into what?"

John almost recoils in horror. This is no longer _his_ nightmare, but his father's. They are happy, this family. Happy and healthy. He knows the difference between this family and his own and it's nothing he could help. The knot of guilt at the pit of his stomach, dormant for years, is replaced by a sudden rush of affection for the parents who ache for one another, who ache because of one another, and live in their own hell for him. There's only one letter between 'mother' and 'smother' and he misses her stifling love.

"I'm a dimension jumper," he says simply. "And I'm afraid I won't be staying. In fact…" Swigging from a glass vial, he knocks back a good-sized sip of a deep blue liquid. "I'll be going. Thank you – for everything."

As his bones crack and he hurtles through darkness, he hears the response.

"And just what the shite is a dimension jumper?"

* * *

He has not had time to acclimatise before he is hugged tightly, enveloped in soft cotton, her head resting on his chest.

"Now's not a good time to be squeezing me. I'm actually in rather a lot of pain."

His mother releases him immediately, instead gripping his shoulders and holding him at arm's length. "Oh thank God you're home. I hoped you'd give up on this sooner, but you're here; that's what matters."

The home in which she is still hidden from the world feels empty without his father. The kitchen windowsill is devoid of his books on sustainable living, bread-making, and reading tea-leaves. The room isn't dirty – his mother is not a slob – but he can no longer see his reflection in the tiles. The family silver has been removed from the dresser, along with his grandmother's Blue Willow wedding china.

"I've not given it up, Mum. I'm going back – somewhere else. I need a new potion, but I'm sure I can get one."

Anna runs her hands down her face, pulling at the skin around her eyes. "I don't know what I can say."

John laughs mirthlessly. "It's all right. The worst is over for you. I don't think I'll go looking for you again." He pulls out a chair and sits at the little round table. "I think you'd better have a seat. This might take a while."

Anna, unused to being spoken to in such a manner by anyone, wordlessly does as she's told and stares across the table at the man her son has become.

"I know."

"Know what?" she croaks.

"I know why he hates you. I know why they all hate you. And I don't hate you – you're my mother and I love you, but I don't know that I can ever _like_ you again."

Her eyes search the room like a trapped animal. "You've got to understand."

"I'm an adult now. I haven't _got_ to do anything. I don't have to live with what he lives with, but I know what people say. I know how I'm treated by Electra Black. And that's just what you did to him."

"I didn't!" She pulls at her hair, catching knots in her fingers and yanking at them. "That's not what happened. John, this has nothing to do with you. That was all before you were born. We were at _school_ and I still loved him. That's how we had you. It wasn't like that. It really wasn't."

"Then how was it?"

Anna scrunches her face until her features are all almost central and wipes at her tears with her palm heels, but John remains unmoved. "He was a bastard! Nobody ever acknowledges what he did to _me_. Nobody ever sympathises with _me_. He destroyed me, John. I ended up having to make myself feel like a real person by going to _fucking_ Mulciber."

"I think you could have done without 'going to' there."

"Show some goddamn respect," she snarls. "I'm still your mother."

Embarrassed at having overstepped the mark, John averts his eyes.

"He made me feel attractive. And I'd never felt like that before in my life. He pursued me and, unlike your saintly bloody father, once he got me, he wanted to keep me. So what the _hell_ was I supposed to do? What would _you_ have done?"

John raises an eyebrow. "And you're honestly trying to tell me that lycanthropy had nothing to do with it?"

Anna laughs. "It had _everything_ to do with it. I don't know that in ordinary circumstances, I would _want_ to spend the rest of my life with a werewolf, but I was never asked to make that kind of choice. Your father made the decision when _he_ couldn't deal with it."

"I need to go. I'm sorry, but I need to leave. I'll see you when I get back."

"And how long will you be?"

John shrugs. "I just don't know. However long it takes."

* * *

"He's waiting upstairs," Electra hisses. "In her _room_."

Sirius shrugs and pours himself a larger than large measure of whiskey. "What can you do?"

Electra stares at him. "Really? What can you do? Is that all you have to say?"

"What do you want me to say?"

The drawing room at Grimmauld Place is still dark, but the air is lighter, more breathable. The books have been replaced with others of more palatable subjects, but the drapes are still Muggle-blood red and heavy. The chairs are family heirlooms and though Sirius sometimes has an uncontrollable urge to burn them, Electra cherishes them and polishes their mahogany legs.

"I don't know. Tell him it's inappropriate."

Sirius raises an eyebrow and takes a seat. "That's awfully hypocritical of you." Electra offers him her smarmiest smile. "It's even _more_ hypocritical of me."

"That was different."

"Yes, because of course, I had to sneak around to see you because your mother hated me, but you just _love_ John."

Electra clicks her tongue and takes a seat. "I just don't think it's a good idea."

"Because his father –"

"Because he reminds me of his _mother_. Impulsive, reckless, head in the clouds. They're neither of them realists, Sirius. And hell, a roll in the hay is just a roll in the hay, but what if she gets pregnant?"

Sirius only laughs.

"It's not bloody funny!"

"She's an intelligent girl. Give her some credit." He knocks back his glass and summons the decanter, catching it deftly and pouring himself another. "And besides, I don't think John even knows what an erection _is_ let alone what to do with it."

The front door creaks on its hinges. Cara calls her greeting as she runs up the stairs. Castor pokes a head out of his bedroom door and shouts, "Cara's late!"

"Shut up, snitch!" She slams her bedroom door behind her and leans against it, catching her breath. "I wasn't expecting you back before the end of summer."

John grins. "I missed you."

"Yeah, yeah. Why are you really here?"

"I had to see you. I think my world is falling apart and I just wanted to see you."

Cara throws her bag to the floor and throws herself onto the bed, patting the space beside her. "You think your world is falling apart?"

"Everything I know, or thought I knew, has been turned on its head and –"

"Shush. Give me your hand."

John hesitates, but she's smiling expectantly. He places his hand in hers and laughs breathily as she imitates his sincerity and runs her fingers along the lines in his palm.

"Nothing here about that."

"Palmistry," John protests, "is an art – a well-respected art."

Cara scoffs. "Where?"

"Well certainly not _here_."

Cara smirks. "That's only because I can think of better things for you to do with your hands." With no intention of releasing him, she lifts his hand to cup her breast, holding his gaze and relishing his blush.

"Cara, I _can't_."

Trying not to let him know she's sulking, she releases his hand. "Why not?" she demands. "Don't you want to? What's wrong with me?"

"Of course I want to. Sweet mother of mercy, I fucking want to."

Cara stares at him, mouth agape. "Then just do it. For Christ's sake, John." Grabbing both hands, she places them on her chest. "Be a normal fucking human being and just enjoy copping a feel. What's wrong with you?" She wriggles closer to him and wraps an arm around his neck. "And don't squeeze them. Contrary to popular belief, it doesn't feel good and they don't make a sound."

He can't help but laugh, though she couldn't be more serious.

"Are you laughing at me?"

"You're perfect, Cara. Has anyone ever told you that?"

"Oh, only every single day of my life. Once more for the cheap seats though, eh?"

* * *

He doesn't think he'll ever get used to the pain, but the general wooziness is getting easier to deal with. He stumbles as he tries to step forward and reaches out to catch his balance. His hand lands on a cold, wet wall; something seeps in between the gaps in his fingers.

"What the fuck is this?"

"Paint." The girl writing in a leather notebook on the bed doesn't seem at all fazed by his arrival. "I decided I wanted yellow walls. And you are?"

"It's a long story. My name is John – John Lupin. And I'm you. In another dimension, I am you."

She glares up at him over her glasses, which have slipped down her long Greek nose. Facially, they are very similar. "And just what the fuck are you doing in my bedroom, John Lupin?"

"Aren't you afraid?"

She laughs. "Of you? No, son, I'm not. I could take five of you."

"It's rather a long story."

"I've got all fucking night, mate. If I were you, I'd start talking."


End file.
